The Color Purple was the first piece of literature I can remember reading. I was 13. It confused me, made me angry, made me think and made me cry. When I finished it, I was exhausted and I knew I never wanted to read it again. I also knew it was good.﻿

A college professor made our freshman Music Appreciation class squirm by requiring us to define what made a composition "good." Whether we liked it or not, he insisted, was irrelevant. How did it make us feel? And why? These answers, he said, might help us determine whether the music was good.

I've rolled this discussion around for years. As a bookish English major, I've read countless books. As best I can say, I've rested on my working definition of what makes a work "good."

1. It must be written with understanding and mastery of the craft; there must be beauty in it.

2. It must make me think and feel.

Note, I did not say "I have to enjoy it." Over the years there have been many good books-- Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath, Richard Wright's Native Son, Chinuwa Achebe's Things Fall Apart-- that, at time of reading, I never hoped to see again. There have been others-- like The Great Gatsby, Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things, and Chris Cleave's Little Bee-- that I wanted to reread almost immediately. Here's the thing: They were all good, whether I enjoyed them or not.

Lately I'm pondering the concept of "goodness." What does one mean, I wonder, when she asks whether Deacon is a "good" baby? If it would mean he doesn't cry and sleeps through the night, then he is decidedly not "good." But I'm not comfortable declaring my precious son "bad." These days my daughters are also, by these standards, far from "good." We are fighting together daily to learn and embody grace and love and what it means to be a family as the circumstances change. Sometimes it is hard. But when I kneel-- weary-- at their bedsides, tuck their spindly limbs back in and kiss their foreheads, I'll be damned if they're not among the most perfect things I've ever seen.

In James we're told that "every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow" (James 1:17, NASB). And maybe this fitful wrestling I've done over the concept of "goodness" isn't limited to literature or music or art.

It can be so easy, when the days are long and the to-do list is longer, when the hands are small and the feet are clumsy, when the personalities are emerging and the temperaments asserting themselves, to think there is some other time-- before or to come-- when the days will be perfect. But to fall into this thinking is ungrateful at best and blasphemous at worst. And on "bad" days I am a heretic of the most unsavory sort. When these feelings prevail, overcoming what I know, I suggest that, actually, there is variation and shifting shadow in the giver of these gifts. This thinking suggests that my thankfulness and the very worth of the gifts themselves hinge on their behavior on a given day, at a given moment. Such thoughts suggest, then, that the gifts-- my blessed children-- are worthy of my affection as a condition and not a rule.

Certainly they don't treat me that way, despite the unloveliness that fatigue and the mundane have wrought lately. Certainly the Father of Lights about whom I teach my children daily would never treat His children in that manner. We are loved, valued and cherished, regardless of our moods, words accomplishments, or behavior, simply because we are.

May we love our children like this. May they never wonder whether our love wavers or hinges on their actions. May we model this always, especially when it is hard. May we see the goodness of the moments and the gifts, even when we don't enjoy it all.

Our home's excessive landscape has been neglected for some time. The proliferation of weeds is astounding. As the rains have fallen, new vegetation greets us daily; inches of growth appear overnight, beds must be cleared, trees must be pruned, bushes must be trimmed. It is overgrown and overwhelming, requiring patience, time and skill we don't currently have. But each day our daughter tromps through the yard in search of new blooms. She finds yellow forsythia, purple irises, three shades of azalea and bubble gum pink roses. The varieties seem to increase daily, their beauty evident despite the clamoring weeds.

I eventually did read The Color Purple again, and it's still not my favorite book. But I've never forgotten the passage from which is takes its name: "I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it." Our garden beds are full of weeds our neighbors seem eager for us to address. My daily mood is influenced more than it should be by circumstance. My children are reeling from change. They need time and space to adjust; they need to be held tightly even as they rage. They need to rest in the knowledge that they are loved, regardless of whether it is "deserved."

We are reminded each night, as we check on every sleeping child and fall into bed together, that it's all-- every single bit of it-- good.

It occurs to me recently that I still think of myself as having a “newborn.” Today as I check out at the grocery store, with a drooling infant wrapped to my torso, a four-year-old singing with abandon to Katy Perry’s ROAR (that is no longer playing), and a six-year-old obliviously performing pirouettes in the middle of the store entrance, the cashier remarks, “Two girls and a boy. So are you done?” I cannot explain how often strangers ask this type of question. Or how annoying I find it, despite their likely friendly intentions. “My husband says yes,” I say, as I always do. “I say it’s not the right time to make that decision. I’ll think about it when I’m sleeping through the night.” “How old is he?” She asks. “Almost four months.” Then she did it. She used the ‘S’ word. “Well, he should be good by now, shouldn’t he?” Should. Lovely. Yes, maybe he should. Maybe I should try telling that to him: “Hey, infant, you SHOULD be sleeping better by now.”

Of course I don’t say that. I say, “Well, he’s teething, so…” to which she nods. The thing is, I sort of feel that way too. I sort of feel like all of this SHOULD be easier than this by now. I SHOULD have adjusted to having three children. I SHOULD have lost the weight by now, have a workout routine, a healthier sleep regimen; Deacon SHOULD be eating and napping and cooing through days like clockwork now. Mirabella SHOULD know better than to throw tantrums now that she’s six; Emerie SHOULD be used to being a middle child by now. I SHOULD be able to order our days better at this point. We SHOULD be more settled, since we’ve technically been in Virginia for almost 8 months. We SHOULD have good friends and strong connections; this SHOULD feel like home. A former coworker used to say, “Don’t should on me.” And yet here I am, struggling under the weight of blessedly ordinary things—enormous blessings— regardless of how hard it SHOULD be. Shoulding all over myself.

At this point with my other two children, I would have been back to work for the past month. I'd be crying each Wednesday evening at the realization that it was all so endless and exhausting; running frantically between office locations with my pump bag, taking conference calls while pumping, holding meetings via IM because I was pumping, racing to day care seven minutes later than I should have been, commuting more than two hours per day, never feeling like I was in the right place. But I’d be wearing clothes that fit, my hair would be done every day, I’d be conversing with adults, peeing alone whenever I felt the need and eating lunch sitting down. There are two sides to all of this.

It’s not that I wish I were back at work, though my children have been giving me a run for my money, least of all Deacon. And yet, at the end of even our most difficult days, I would still tell you I know I’m where I am supposed to be and that it is where I want to be. I can see that across the larger picture. Sometimes the details make me forget. The fighting sisters, the yelling I swore I’d never do, the endless feedings, the persistent rain, all of it made to feel somewhat unbearable under the weight of four months of sleepless nights.

Walking through the store today after putting an expensive bottle of sunscreen in my cart, I decided to be the change I’ve been needing.

“I am so grateful to be buying this sunscreen,” I said to no one.

“Why?” Mirabella asked.

“Because it means it’s going to be sunny.”

“Ooh, I’m grateful for that too,” Mirabella agreed.

I may not enjoy grocery shopping with three impatient children, but I’m grateful to have the money to buy healthy food for our family. I’m grateful for the growing, wiggly, healthy baby that greets me in the middle of every night. I’m grateful that weary husband of mine, burdened from working so hard for us, comes home to us every night, even if it’s later and in rougher shape than I’d like, and that next week’s business trip is an anomaly. I’m grateful for friends who get it and me, even if they are only accessible by phone. I’m grateful for glimmers of community, even if it’s taking longer than I’d planned. I’m grateful for days not yet crowded with commitments and extra-curriculars, even if they are sometimes tedious. I’m grateful to have free time with my eldest, before she starts school in the fall, even if I feel like I’m often failing at providing the challenges and structure she needs.

I know what I need, and I know I’m not in control of all of it. But I will try to choose to focus on the things I can control. I can’t control when I’ll finally sleep through the night. But I can choose to include activities in my days that feed my soul so that, even in my fatigue, I am better prepared to deal with the tasks that come. I can choose to read a book while nursing instead of mindlessly reading updates on my phone. I can choose to fill small snippets of found time with writing instead of always changing a load of laundry or sweeping a floor. I can choose to let my husband support me by telling him when I need to get out instead of complaining that I’m never alone.

This job is solitary, and many of the perks can get buried in the mundane and sheer volume of the work. The rewards are often deferred. It’s hard because it just is; spending time thinking it SHOULD be different is wasteful. Instead I’ll try to take care of myself so I am better able to care for everyone else. I’ll pray with thankfulness for strength and patience, and cover myself—and the rest of it—in grace.

About Me

Christina | Virginia BeachPsuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.